


You Who Are My Home

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-04
Updated: 2009-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:05:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Two thousand miles and that's the greeting I get? So much for that famed Southern hospitality. Never mind, I'll help you get started: 'Hello, Brad. Good to see you. I would have returned your numerous emails or taken one of your plentiful phone calls, but I fell the other night when I was out cow-tipping with the boys, hit my head, and am now a fucking amnesiac."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Who Are My Home

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v142/shoshannagold/?action=view&current=ywamyh2byattempt_perfect.jpg)
> 
> This is a work of fiction based upon characters from the HBO miniseries.
> 
> This story was inspired by a prompt for [](http://community.livejournal.com/lgbtfest/profile)[**lgbtfest**](http://community.livejournal.com/lgbtfest/):_ In addition to the usual problems gays in the military have, what happens when Ray is outed to his family back home and Brad's constant joking about them being stereotypical southern "hicks" rings true for how they react, i.e., badly?_.
> 
> Lyrics in Part Two from _You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown_ by Charles Schulz. Title from _Orange Sky_ by Alexi Murdoch.
> 
> Massive, bigger-than-Brad-Colbert thanks to my betas: [](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/profile)[**alethialia**](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/), who read this twice and provided me excellent advice, despite my fundamental betrayal of the OTP, [](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**romanticalgirl**](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/), who made me dig deeper; and [](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/profile)[**mydocuments**](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/), who knows the proper attire for a court-martial. Without them, this would never have left my WiP folder. The gorgeous cover art is by [](http://attempt-unique.livejournal.com/profile)[**attempt_unique**](http://attempt-unique.livejournal.com/), who totally rocks!

Brad was happily blissed out on the couch when his phone rang. He'd been up early to catch the dawn swells at the Wedge with Swarr, and then met up with his dad for breakfast. He didn't need a nap – fuck if he couldn't do a lot more on a lot less sleep – but the best thing about being on leave was dropping onto the couch whenever he felt like it, sleeping with the sunlight warming his skin, the sound of the waves echoing through his dreams.

He didn't bother to check the caller ID. He didn't give out his number to anybody he didn't want to talk to, and if it was a telemarketer, he'd just hang up. "What?" he grumbled.

"Hey Brad. May I talk to Ray?"

Walt really was ridiculously polite for a Recon Marine, Brad thought muzzily. He had no idea how they hadn't managed to beat it out of him, but if they hadn't done it by now, it probably wasn't going to happen. Though maybe they could manage to teach him to properly program his phone's address book so that he didn't mistake Brad's cell phone number for Ray's. Brad would have a little class on that when they all went back to work. Such good ideas he had. "Wrong number," Brad said, hanging up.

The phone rang again, but Brad ignored it, falling back asleep easily, only to be woken by it again five minutes later. He may as well take it; Walt could be a persistent asshole. It was usually a trait Brad admired and encouraged. "What the fuck, Walt?"

"Wake the fuck up, Brad."

"I'm 'wake."

Walt sighed. "No, you aren't. Don't think I can't tell. But, whatever, I don't really give a damn. Just hand the phone to Ray and you can do whatever you want."

How fucking gracious of him. "Don't push it, Corporal, or you're going to spend a day humping sand bags from one end of Margarita to the other."

Walt snorted. "Like you wouldn't be there doing them right along with me."

One time. One time he'd ordered Lilley to swim an extra fifty laps after goofing off and trying to drown Holsey, only to have the entire platoon join him in the pool. Brad certainly wasn't going to stand on the deck looking like asshole while his Marines showed what brotherhood really meant…

"Hey!" Walt's voice was sharp. "Brad, don't go back to sleep on me, at least not until you give Ray the phone."

Brad sat up, forcing himself awake. No rest for the goddamn weary. "I'm taking a nap, Walt. Just because we're roommates doesn't mean I'd let Ray anywhere near me as I blissfully partake in slumber."

"Look, man, I'm not asking and I'm not telling, but after six weeks in the same victor and, fuck, two years in the same platoon, let's not even pretend I don't know, okay?"

"That sounds an awful lot like you asking and me telling," Brad said.

"Jesus, Brad."

"Calm down, my young friend. I don't think you're going to sell us down the river. I was merely pointing out the error of your statement."

Walt groaned. "This is how you're going to punish me for waking you up, isn't it? Torturing me over semantics for hours, when all I want to do is talk to Ray for five minutes."

Like he didn't have better things to do with his time. Then again – "When has anybody ever had a conversation with Ray that only lasted five minutes?"

"I could say the same about you, right now," Walt groused.

Brad laughed. Maybe he was ready to go back to work after all. "He's not here. He's visiting his mother in that backwoods, Bible-belt, Jew-hating hole. He's got his cell phone with him; try that."

"I did. I left three messages yesterday. I even looked up the number at his mama's house and left a message there."

Huh. Brad hadn't talked to Ray since Saturday night, himself. He'd called to let Brad know he'd landed and was at his mom's, but nothing since then. It was only Monday afternoon and it wasn't like they had to talk every day when they weren't together, but – Ray would probably call him tonight. "And he hasn't called you back?"

"Sure hasn't. So I thought maybe he was home by now and that you're keepin' him too busy to get to the phone."

Kids these days; all they thought about was sex. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, it's just that the Headdstones are doing a farewell tour and I got a line on some LA tickets. I know he'd love to see that show, but I don't want to buy him a ticket if he's not gonna to be around for it. But I've gotta know today or else this guy is going to give them to somebody else."

Ray would indeed enjoy that show. Fucking obscure indie bands were the reason he got up in the morning, even if they were Canadian. But it would serve him right if he missed it because he was too stoned to answer his phone. "When's the show?"

"A week from Thursday."

Nine days. Ray would definitely be back by then. "Get the tickets. I'll swing by your place with some cash tomorrow."

"I can cover it until Ray gets back, Brad. It's not that much," Walt protested, but Brad knew from personal experience how short a corporal's salary stretched, especially during leave.

"How much?" he asked again, this time in a voice that brokered no opposition.

Walt sighed. "50 bucks each."

Smart kid. He trained them well. "I'll drop that off tomorrow."

"Thanks, Brad. Tell Ray to give me a call when you track him down."

"Stay frosty, Walt."

Brad dialed Ray's cell as soon as he hung up from talking to Walt. It went straight to voicemail. "I was taking a well-deserved nap until ten minutes ago, Ray, when my very pleasant dream was interrupted by Walt because you're too doped up to answer your fucking phone. Call me so I can tell you how you're going to make it up to me."

Ray hadn't called by the time Brad went to bed, so he kept the phone on his nightstand, for all the good it did. He woke up at dawn to catch an early set; six am in California was nine in the morning in Missouri and it wouldn't bother him at all if he happened to wake Ray up. Once again, the call went straight to voicemail. He left a brief but eloquent message explaining why it would behoove Ray to return his call immediately, but that was just a waste of his breath because there was no message waiting for him when he got home.

Nevada, Missouri really was in the ass-end of nowhere and it was entirely conceivable that Ray was just getting shitty cell service. That wouldn't stop him from calling in to check his messages, but maybe he'd just assumed he didn't have any. Brad tried the number Ray had left him for his mom's house, in case of emergencies, only to get another answering machine. He left a much more decorous message than the email he sent Ray a few hours later when the radio silence continued to hold.

He was downright irritated by the time the sun went down. He went for a run to blow off some steam. Ten miles later, he was no less annoyed, but able to admit to himself that it was augmented by worry.

Going to bed seemed like a good enough plan; fuck if he wasn't still exhausted all the time, two months after they'd flown out of the desert. But sleep eluded him; he tossed and turned as his brain cycled through the reasons Ray might not have called.

Ray was an excellent driver, but anybody could get sideswiped. One solid hit on the driver's side and he'd be fucked, especially if he'd hit his head. And then there was his annoying predilection for picking up hitchhiking bums; there was no doubt Ray could take care of himself, but he wouldn't be carrying a weapon with him on the back roads of that fucking red state, and all the black belts in the world weren't any kind of defense against a hopped-up speed freak with a gun.

As team leader for Second Platoon, he'd have been notified if Ray had been somehow injured while he was on leave; Mike or Fick would call him first thing, even if he was somehow left out of the official loop. He told himself that as he lay in bed, staring at the shadows moving across the ceiling, but it did fuck-all to reassure him. Given the amount of bureaucratic bullshit the Corps was capable of manifesting, it could be days before an accident report reached 1st Recon's command, especially since the whole fucking battalion, from Godfather down, was on leave.

Fuck, he was being ridiculous. Ray was sitting around with his buddies, drinking beer and shooting the shit. He'd call Brad tomorrow and laugh at him for acting like the little woman, Brad would tell him what a complete fucking douche he was for not calling sooner, they'd bitch each other out and then have make-up phone sex.

At one a.m. he gave up on the idea of sleep altogether, turned on his laptop, and booked a flight to Kansas City from San Diego, with an hour-long layover in Dallas. He booked a rental to pick up at the airport in Kansas, and pulled out his road atlas to plot the drive from Kansas City to Nevada. By 5 a.m. he was on the road to the airport.

***

 

"Oh, shit," Ray said when he opened the door.

Brad raised his eyebrows. "Two thousand miles and that's the greeting I get? So much for that famed Southern hospitality. Never mind, I'll help you get started: 'Hello, Brad. Good to see you. I would have returned your numerous emails or taken one of your plentiful phone calls, but I fell the other night when I was out cow-tipping with the boys, hit my head, and am now a fucking amnesiac." That would at least explain the black eye.

Ray sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead, looking older and more tired than Brad had ever seen him, even after six weeks in Iraq on less sleep than prisoners in Gitmo got. The bruise covering his eye and the cuts on his face made him look beaten down, a word that Brad had never associated with Ray before. Brad reached out a hand to touch the black eye, to get a measure of how badly it was swollen, but Ray jerked away.

Brad stilled, feeling like the world had stopped cold for a beat. He'd never once gone to put his hands on Ray and been turned away. Maybe this hadn't been the best idea he'd ever had. What the fuck had he been thinking, just hopping on a plane and charging in here, guns ablazing? He was a Recon Marine: trained to critically assess and observe a situation from a distance before taking action. Operation Iraqi Freedom had fucked with his SOP in more ways than one. Next thing you knew, he'd be calling in danger close strikes and encouraging his men to attend prayer services.

It could've been instinct; it hurt when somebody fucked with your injury, after all. He was inclined toward that, given that Ray was looking at him with a mocking expression on his face, like he knew exactly what Brad was thinking and couldn't decide what to make fun of first. "Fuck, Colbert, you're such a piece of fucking work." He stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him, glowering at it when it stuck. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

He held out a hand for the keys and Brad handed them over, an old habit. They got in the car and Ray turned the SUV on and rolled his eyes when the radio blared Stevie Nicks, but didn't say anything. Before he shifted into drive he looked at Brad, face inscrutable.

It'd been years since Brad hadn't been able to read Ray, if ever; even if he never knew what was going to come out of that mouth he could usually at least gauge the tone it would be said in, but right then Brad had no idea what Ray might be thinking.

He was completely taken aback when Ray leaned in and planted a brief hard kiss on Brad's mouth, his lips come and gone before Brad even blinked. "Gonna get us lynched," he said when his brain caught up with his mouth. "I don't think the locals are much inclined to tolerate this kind of thing around here."

"Fuck them," Ray said. "Fuck them and the fucking self-righteous horse they rode in on. What's one more body?" Maybe _that_ was meant to explain the black eye, but Ray didn't add anything, just threw the car into gear and gunned down the street. That was the last thing he said on the way to wherever the fuck they were headed. Brad looked out the window, taking in the town where Ray had grown up.

Even before joining the Marines, Brad had been well-travelled: his parents both had serious cases of wanderlust and thought nothing of carting him and his sisters off to every corner of the world whenever the whim struck. Europe, Israel, every foreign tropic had a two star hotel and running water – and some that didn't – Brad had been to them all.

But for all that he'd seen the world, this was his first time in this part of the USA. He'd seen the depths of poverty, villages in shit-poor countries that didn't even have working wells, just women busting ass back and forth to a dirty trickle of a river all day long; he'd seen the gloried heights of western wealth and opulence, bright shiny cities like London and New York where not even the bum begging on the corner looked like he'd ever missed more than a meal or two in his life, but this was an entirely different kettle of fish.

The buildings were old, and despite the fresh coat of paint on some of them and the clean sidewalks, they looked tired. Some of the people looked the same way, but to his surprise, it was largely people his age who bore the most resigned expressions, the same look Brad had seen on guys who reupped because they didn't know any other kind of work and knew that there were long years of service ahead of them. Those Marines were the most dangerous, because when you stopped caring about what you were doing, you stopped caring if you lived through it or not, or if the guy next to you did. That type very rarely made it as far as Recon, and if they did, either that hangdog look went away, or they did.

The downtown core flew past in a couple of blocks, replaced by streets full of neat little houses with tidy laws and flower beds galore, azaleas in every color dotting the yards. Kids played on the sidewalks, skipping and jumping, running through sprinklers. As far as Brad could tell, every vehicle had some manner of 'Support Our Troops' insignia. It was oddly nice to be somewhere he imagined people didn't stink of patchouli and wouldn't preach pacifist bullshit at him when they found out he was a Marine.

Other than the bruised eye, Ray appeared to be physically intact – clearly he wasn't lying dead in a ditch or doing time as Big Bertha's prison bitch. Brad should find out why he'd been incommunicado, but Ray watching the road and humming along to Wilco while tapping his hands on the steering wheel along with the beat. No point trying to have a productive discussion with Ray while he was driving – Brad had spent enough time in a victor with him to know that much.

They reached a T-intersection, but instead of turning left or right onto the paved street, Ray went straight, onto a gravel road, trees on either side. It seemed like it might be cooler, now that it was shadier, and the air conditioning had been exacerbating the headache he'd had since Dallas, so he rolled down the window, catching the smell of water as he did. Ray pulled off the road, onto a wide shoulder, and stopped the car.

"C'mon," he said, getting out of the car, nodding towards a path that cut through the trees. "You'll like it here."

No explanation of where the hell 'here' might be, but Brad had flown two thousand miles and driven a good hundred or so more. There wasn't much point in digging in his heels now.

The trees cleared after about a hundred feet and Brad found himself at the beginning of a land bridge separating two little lakes. Ray walked about another fifty feet in and then settled on the shore of the northernmost one, a spot that clearly saw more people than the isolation of the area would indicate. Brad settled in beside him, leaned back on his elbows, and waited for Ray to start talking.

He wasn't as surprised this time when Ray leaned over and laid another kiss on him. His lips were soft and warm, this kiss nothing like the one outside Ray's house. That had been a statement, some kind of unseen 'fuck you,' to whom Brad wasn't sure yet, though he was beginning to have his suspicions.

This was a greeting, a welcome, and at the same time, a question. Ray made no attempt to deepen the kiss and for the first time Brad could tell that Ray was apprehensive about Brad suddenly dropping in on him in the middle of fucking nowhere. Crazily enough, Ray might actually need some reassurance here and Brad was happy enough to provide it.

He deepened the kiss, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue along Ray's lower lip. Ray made a noise when their tongues touched, as though something sharp and lonely was released inside him, and then Brad barely had time to brace himself before he had a lapful of hardass Marine.

Ray pushed him down and Brad went willingly, lying back in the grass and reaching to put his arms around Ray, sliding his hands up the back of his shirt to get his hands on warm, sweaty skin. He'd lain with Ray in the sand of Pendleton, in the rocky soil of Afghanistan, in the dust of Iraq; the soft grass on this riverbank would be a pleasure in comparison.

Except – "Wait," he said, reluctantly pulling his mouth away. Ray just ignored him and pressed in closer, kissing Brad again. "Ray. No. There will be no getting arrested for public indecency and sodomy and whatever the fuck else they stick on guys who like to take it up the ass out here in the boondocks until you tell me what the hell is going on."

Ray groaned and rolled off Brad, sitting up and glaring down at him. "You've never been a goddamn cocktease before, Brad," he bitched, but there was no heat in his words.

"You've never gone to ground while on a visit to the middle of fucking nowhere before. I understand the urge to drown yourself in pills and booze to block out that you come from a red-state, donkey-fucking, ass-end-of-nowhere hole in the ground, but since that's clearly not what's going on here, you're going to take me through the sit-rep. Now." That was probably a waste of his breath, because Ray laughed at his orders out of uniform twice as hard as he did when they were actually at work, but it was worth a shot.

And, amazingly enough, it seemed to have some effect. Ray took a deep breath and looked out at the lake. "Shit. I should have brought booze."

"Luckily for you, I not only possess great wisdom, but great foresight," said Brad smugly. That, and he'd been able to go through duty free in Dallas, even though he was only flying domestic. Such was the power of a military i.d. card.

"Oooh, Iceman, you're my hero," Ray crooned in a falsetto before holding out his hand. "Fork over the goods, dude. And it better not be any of that weak-ass agave shit you California boys drink like it's cool."

Brad sat up and pulled the flask of Jim Beam out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and passed it over. "No, Ray, for you I got the rotgut preferred by whiskey-tango fuck-ups everywhere. Seeing as how I'm bucking for best boyfriend of the year, it seemed a shame to let my good taste get in the way of your drunken pleasure."

"Too bad we don't wear medals, Brad. That little upside-down rainbow pin would look just swell on your Class As at your court-martial – Shit." Ray cut himself off and took a swig of bourbon, staring out at the lake.

Brad raised his eyebrows. "Why would I be court-martialed?" he prompted.

Ray didn't answer, just stared out at the lake again, taking another drink. Christ, this was worse than pulling teeth. "Ray. My patience is not infinite."

"Yeah." Ray looked over at him and shrugged. "Sorry. I know I'm being a total fucking pussy right now. I didn't call you, Brad, because we have to have a conversation, and for once, I don't know how the fuck to talk about something. Make a note on your calendar because the last time this happened – shit, this has never happened."

Brad refrained from mentioning the long silence between Baghdad and Ad Diwaniyah, before Ray went postal on Rudy. "What the fuck is this about, Ray?"

"Okay. Fuck. First of all, you need to chill. This isn't about us, or at least not in the way you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking anything," Brad said quickly. "Well, okay, nothing beyond how I was going to scare up the cash to bail your sorry ass out of jail for possession or some such fuck up."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Don't even start with me, Colbert. I know how your paranoid, delusional brain operates. So rest assured, I'm not hiding out here trying to figure out a way to gently dump your neurotic, narcissistic, nelly ass."

Brad had been pretty sure of that, between the kissing and the groping and how they'd been about ten seconds from fucking on the beach, but it never hurt to get solid intel. "I know."

"No, you didn't." They were sitting side-by-side, close enough to touch despite the heat of the sun pounding down on them, and Ray emphasized his point by bumping Brad's shoulder with his own. "Fuck, Brad, you think I'm hiding out here like a bitch, trying to figure out if I should break up with you by passing you a note in chemistry class or just have Cindy-Joe do it for me after school while I blow the quarterback in the head? When the fuck have I ever been that passive-aggressive? If there was a problem between us, I'd let you know. In person. Jesus."

"The last three days speak to the utter bullshit of that statement."

"No, they don't. This has nothing to do with us. Well, okay, it does. But we're not the problem. At least not the way you think we are. Because we aren't a problem. At least I don't think we're a problem. There are others who don't fucking agree with me."

Brad had pictured Ray lying in a hospital bed being kept alive by machines, or getting into it with jail wardens intent on denying him his constitutional rights. It'd occurred to him that Ray could've stepped out on him, but he'd moved on almost as soon as the thought had registered. Dwelling on the way he'd been betrayed by others wasn't fair to Ray or their relationship.

It hadn't occurred to him that there could be a problem which threatened their jobs, because how the fuck could that happen in Asslick, Missouri? "Who?"

"You remember Colin Becker?"

He'd expected to hear that Ray's mom had found out, or Godfather, or somebody who actually mattered, so it took him a second to process the name. "That blond kid who tried out for Recon a couple of years ago?"

"Yeah. He made it through BRC, but then washed out in one of the schools."

"He was in my class at dive school," Brad said slowly, trying to remember how that might be important, hating the feeling that there was something vital he couldn't quite put his finger on.

It had been two years ago. Before 9/11, a couple of months before the _Dubuque_ had shipped out, Brad had taken a tour instructing at Dive school. He remembered that class well: Garza and Chaffin had been it in, and they'd stood out even among the usual top recruits who made it that far, so he'd made sure they'd been assigned to him. Becker had been less impressive. In fact, the most memorable thing about him was that he'd been completely incapable of going longer than two minutes with the hoses turned on him before making a break for the wall. Right, there it was. "I cut him after a week."

"Yep." Ray nodded. "You sure did. After he just about fucking drowned and tried to take Jason with him."

Indeed he had. That was the closest Brad had come to losing a man, before Iraq. Becker had panicked in a drill, reached out for the nearest life support, which happened to be Lilley. They'd gotten them both out in time, but Lilley had a broken rib from CPR. Not that it had stopped him from finishing the course because he was the kind of tough asshole who thrived in Recon.

Becker, however, had bitched and moaned: blamed the gear, blamed the instructors, blamed the Marine he'd almost killed, and then tried to blow everybody he could get on his knees in front of to get back in to the program, to no avail. It wasn't the way he freaked out in the water that killed his chances; it was his inability to own his mistake. Brad wouldn't tolerate that kind of shirking and neither would Recon's command.

Motherfucker. He reached for the flask as the pieces fell together. "He was from around here, wasn't he?"

Ray nodded. "Grew up on a farm about twenty miles out of town. We went to high school together. I hadn't thought about the fucker in years until I ran into him the other night when I took my mom out for dinner and was treated to a pleasant, if highly fucking revisionist, trip down memory lane."

"I thought he was with the 1/1."

"He was, but he didn't re-up after Afghanistan. Came back here, married some dumb bitch, and took over the fucking chicken farm. But chicken farming sucks the big one, so apparently he spends most of his time drunk off his ass at the bar." He took the flask back and took a healthy swig. "Anyway, when I'm here, I take my mom out for dinner on Sunday night to Cowboy's Grill. There aren't a fuckload of places to go, but they do a decent enough steak and it gets her off her feet.

"So we went out, the day after I got here. We're sitting there, having a drink before we order, minding our own fucking business, and who the fuck should stumble up to our table but Colin fucking Becker. He's completely fucked up, ten sheets to the wind. But somehow he's still standing, and he starts talking all kinds of shit. Christ knows who he's been talking to, but he seems to think he knows a lot about what we did in Iraq, and he starts mouthing off about Kocher and the bullshit war crimes." Ray rolled his eyes. "Some fucking reservist, probably. Sure as hell wasn't getting that crap from any of us."

Goddamn Delta. If Brad had his way, they'd line the entire company up against the wall and shoot the fuckers.

"Now, if my mom hadn't been there he'd have been flat on his ass by that point and missing more teeth than Manimal. But it's a small town, Brad. I mean, I could give a fuck; I'm never going to live here again, but anything I do, she's going to hear about for the next ten years. 'Remember that time that your Ray knocked out that poor Becker boy at Cowboy's?' Nobody would remember that he was talking trash if I threw the first punch. So, I swear to fucking God, I was very calmly trying to get him to go the fuck away with the help of my good buddy Travis, the assistant manager, when he starts talking shit about my blond boyfriend."

Brad's stomach knotted and knotted again. "He –" His voice was thick all of a sudden, the words sticking in his throat. "What did he say?"

"Brad, fuck, man, chill. Here, have a drink." Ray passed him the flask, looking at him warily. "Look, he was talking out of his ass. He doesn't know shit and there isn't anybody who does who would say fucking word one to him."

Ray had moved away slightly while he was talking, and Brad immediately felt the loss. He didn't need Ray to give him space to process this: for all that he tried to stay aloof and self-contained, when the shit was going down, he'd learned that the best place to be was by the side of one of his Marines. So when Ray moved to stand – a move that would inevitably be followed by pacing – Brad put a hand on his shoulder. "Stay fucking still and tell me what he said."

Ray's body stayed tense under Brad's hand for a minute, and then he relaxed, settling back down into the grass. He sighed, instead, and shook his head. "He made some retarded joke about how I'd be less uptight if I pulled your frozen cock out of my ass – presumably a really stupid attempt to play on the Iceman thing – and then he fell down because he was that fucking trashed. Nobody in their right mind is going take that shit seriously."

"Somebody must have or you wouldn't have gone all Howard Hughes on me." Ray hadn't explained the black eye, either. No way would Becker have been able to lay Ray out in the middle of that kind of scene, so something else must have happened.

"My mom twigged when he made the gay comment, okay? I blew her off, because she only thought she knew something. She's been riding me for lately about finding a nice girl and giving her grandbabies. I'm like, 'Mom, I'm freaking twenty-four years old. I've got a good thirty years before I have to worry that I'm not going to help with global overpopulation,' but she didn't buy that this time."

"I spent a couple of hours trying to say the right thing without turning into a lying asshole and she finally went to bed. Then I went out with some buddies to Shooters and fuck if that sack of shit Becker wasn't there."

"And you took him out?"

Ray shrugged. "He didn't give me much choice. I was in the back, playing pool. I didn't even know he was there until he came at me with a cue."

"Jesus." Brad passed the flask back to Ray.

"I know, right?" Ray's tone reflected Brad's incredulity. "Who the hell does that outside of Dirty Harry movies? He broke it over his knee and everything. Anyway, I saw him coming this time. I shut him down pretty fast, but the asshole had brought friends with him. They tried to get in on the action, my friends stepped up and it turns into a full-fledged brawl." Ray grinned. "It was fucking awesome, Brad. Better than that time with Kocher in Sydney."

A night that had ended with Brad pulling Eric out of the fray about two minutes before the mud puppies had gotten there. He didn't see how this could have ended much differently. "The cops come?"

"Dude, the cops were already there." Ray's smile grew. "The buddy I was chillin' with is a deputy sheriff. He got up in Becker's face, tried to talk him down, and ended up with a nine-ball in the face for his troubles. Stupid ass thing to do for Becker to do because now he's up on charges for both assault with a deadly weapon and assaulting a cop. The kicker is that he's on probation already and now he's looking at time. Sweet justice, and I barely had to lift a finger."

Brad reached over and took the Beam away from Ray, capping it and laying it on the ground beside them. He picked up Ray's right hand and held it out so he could look at it, his thumb smoothing over the bruises and cuts. "Looks to me like things got a bit more involved than that."

"Christ, Brad, it was a freaking bar fight. Just because Becker was squared away didn't mean that shit settled down. Most of the assholes in this town don't give a fuck who they're laying into as long as they get to express their repressed homosexual desire by punching a guy in the face."

"All that training and somebody manages to get the jump on you." Brad shook his head. "On behalf of the Unites States Marine Corps, Corporal, I have to say that I'm disappointed that you didn't knock some redneck heads together."

"Fuck you; you know how it goes. The other guy looks worse. And I mean, not to toot my own horn or anything, but in this case, the other three guys look worse. I may not look like an Aryan god or a 'roid-raging superhero like Rudy, but I can sure as hell hold my own in a bar fight." He gestured to his eye. "I took one hit, and this is nowhere as bad as it looks, but I know it's been killing you to not cluck over me like the Jewish mother hen you are, so go ahead, give it a gander."

Brad eyed him. "You only think you know me as well as you do."

Ray smirked at him. "Don't look then. Doesn't bother me none, either way."

Fuck it; he could play the enigmatic card on a day he hadn't flown clear across the country to check up on his boyfriend. Taking Ray's chin in hand, Brad tilted his head toward the sun, so that shadows didn't obscure the wound. Up close, it still looked pretty bad, the swelling still noticeable, and the bruise was still a dark purple. Whoever had done this had one hell of a punch, because by now it should have lightened into those sickly shades of puke-green and yellow. But the eye was open, at least, and the eyeball itself didn't look cut up.

"Can you move your eye?"

"Yes, I can fucking move my eye. Brad, c'mon –"

Brad cut him off. "Look up, down, side-to-side. You know the drill."

Ray did as Brad said, and Brad watched the eye carefully. It has a pretty good range of motion, might be a bit slower, but that could just be because it hurt, not because of any damage. "You been dizzy?"

"No."

"Seeing double?"

"No." Ray scowled. "Brad, I have my first aid Girl Scout badge, too, and I was right beside you the entire three days Doc was jerking off on us about field wounds. It didn't bleed, there's not a lot of gooey shit coming out of it, I've been alternating ice and heat, and I'm popping Advil like a motherfucker. Now would you fucking kiss it better so we can move on?"

"I said no nookie, not yet," Brad warned, but brought his hand up to Ray's eye, anyway. As softly as he could, he traced the outline of the bruise, gauging how swollen it was. Too much blood gathered there and they could be looking at some long-term complications. "You're going to get this checked out when we get home."

"You know you're completely overreacting, right?" Ray sighed.

Brad had been expecting more of a fight. Clearly Ray also saw how an injury like that one, left unchecked, could impede combat effectiveness, so Brad just smirked. He could distantly hear cars on the highway, but there was nobody within his sight range, so he dared to move in closer and kiss Ray lightly. "Tell me what happened next so we can get out of here and fuck in the air-conditioned comfort of my hotel room."

"Funny you should say that because that's exactly what got us here in the first place."

"Fucking in a hotel room?"

"Check the hotel room; keep the fucking. You remember the night before I flew out?"

Vaguely. They'd been drinking with the boys, celebrating their long-awaited leave. Half the platoon was headed out the following morning, on their way to see parents and families. Fick had been buying, ostensibly to celebrate his promotion to Captain and posting as the commander of BRC, but Brad knew it was because Nate was leaving the Corps. He hated to see him go, but that had been all the more reason to get trashed. "We got drunk?"

"What? Don't tell me that the great Iceman had his memory wiped by that evil-doing tequila. I told you that shit would kill you." Ray crowed. "We got very, very drunk. So drunk that at one point you were in the yard having a nice little talk with Mike's rosebushes. Don't worry, homes, Lilley got it all on tape. But after I managed to pry you away from the flora and fauna, we went home, had fucking awesome sex, and you gave me a hickey the size of Baghdad."

Fuck. Yes, he had. They'd woken up late the next morning, hungover and sticky, and Ray had run around like a chicken with his head cut off, trying to pack his gear in time to not miss his flight before Brad lost his patience and sent Ray to shower while he packed him up himself. So he hadn't seen the evidence of his work in any real way, but he had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going. "I didn't know it was that bad."

"Fuck, man, you left teeth marks. If I didn't know better, I'd think you have fangs." Ray paused. "You don't, do you? Because it would be really cool if you did. You could probably give up your weapon, just grin at the fuckers trying to shoot at us, and watch them shit their pants and run in the other direction."

Ray was certainly in a better mood than he had been an hour ago. Whether it was the bourbon or just the prospect of not being alone with whatever he'd been carrying, Brad wasn't sure. He hated to burst the bubble, but – "Focus, Ray. What happened after the bar fight?"

"Fuck, Brad, you're such a downer. And it's not like you don't know what happened. You really need me to spell it out? All the gory details?"

Yes. He didn't say anything, just looked at Ray expectantly.

"I got home, finally, and took a shower to rinse off all the shit that you get covered with when you're rolling around on the deck of a bar that hasn't been mopped as long as I've been alive. And, fuck if I didn't check to see if there was a towel in the bathroom first."

Oh, Mary, mother of a mythical God –

"She was in bed!" Ray said. "Or at least she was supposed to be. I didn't know she'd be outside the bathroom waiting to pounce on me about the bar fight, because Mrs. Johnston is a fucking busybody who decided that no way she could wait until a decent hour to wag her tongue about all the trouble I started. I mean, fuck, Mom knew I was going out; she should have had the good sense to turn off the phone."

"How much did she see?"

"The full monty, man. Well, the ass version." Ray blew out a sigh and reached for the flask again. "And, Christ, I might as well have had 'I Love Taking It Up the Ass From Brad Colbert,' written there, from the way she reacted."

"How did she know it was me? In fact, what the hell made her think it was a guy who marked you up? Christ, women are usually a hell of a lot more into kink like that then men."

Ray smirked and shook his head. "Not according to my mom. Apparently men are the only ones degenerate enough to perform such acts of lewdness. That's not quite an exact quote, but you get the gist. As for how it was you?" He shrugged. "According to her, there's no one else it could have been. So how about that, Brad? Not only am I some kind of fag intent on ruining my career, I'm throwing it all away on you, a rich hippie asshole who's just using me until some Beverly Hills Hadassah princess comes your way, at which point I'll be carelessly tossed aside for her ripe womb and diamond studded Mercedes "

A great stillness came over Brad as Ray said that, the same way he felt when he was diving into a cave five fathoms undersea, or when he had some asshole with a gun in the site of his M16. For a minute he could think of nothing, only hear the sound of his breath moving in and out, feel Ray's warmth beside him, and then the feeling crashed, and he was left with fury, pure and deep. What kind of parent could say that to her child? Her only child. Jesusfuck, Brad was going to give this woman a good talking-to.

"Hey!" Ray said sharply. "Earth to the Iceman. I know what you're thinking, Brad, and you aren't allowed to fuck up my mom. I can handle this."

Brad looked at Ray, not quite sure what to say. He wanted to offer comfort, but – "Somebody's coming," he said, turning to look at the trees behind them.

Two men with fishing rods came walking out of the woods, nodding at them before taking up a position about twenty feet down the shore. Ray watched them set up and said, "Let's get the fuck out here. We're out of booze and I'm starving. If I'm going to keep on living in a godforsaken Dan Savage column, I'm going to need some serious sustenance."

***

An hour and change later, Brad had checked into his room and he and Ray were lounging on the bed, chowing down on burgers and fries from the drive-through down the block.

"It's funny," Ray said, slurping the last of his milkshake up before getting up to toss it in the trash. "I've climbed up sheer sheets of rock while being shot at by the motherfucking Taliban, rolled through ambushes in a tin-plated Humvee, and then there was that memorable time that we ran low on air in the middle of that dive exercise off the Great Barrier Reef. Remember how freaky that was, dude? I thought we were going to die. And not one of those things made me feel like I was going to toss my cookies."

He didn't sit back down on the bed with Brad, but paced in front of it. "And yet, being called a disappointment by my mother made me feel so fucking terrible I couldn't think about anything else for three days. Fuck, if you hadn't shown up, I'd probably still be punking out about it. Such is the power of the spoken word, Brad. Next thing you know, I'm going to give in to all that moto bullshit and get a screaming eagle or some kind of shit like that tattooed on my ass. Well, after the love bite that broke my mother's heart heals. Or maybe I'll just get it done beside that. Actually, yeah, that would be fitting. Don't you think so, Brad?"

It wasn't Brad's job to be a Ray-to-world translator: if people were too dense to see what lay behind the smokescreen of bullshit and crack, they weren't the type of people he and Ray would want to bother with, anyway. But Brad never made that mistake himself. It was true that a fair percentage of the time Ray was actually talking shit, and he used a hundred words – most of them obscene – when one would do, but Brad knew that if you filtered all that out, the essence of what Ray was saying was usually either telling or interesting, or both. Like now.

"I think that not only do I like your ass the way it is, I don't want to be reminded of the Uniform Code of Military Justice every time I fuck it," Brad said, buying time. Just because he understood that what Ray was saying was that his mom had blown a hole in him bigger than the craters made in the desert sand by a thousand pounds of ordnance didn't mean that he knew how to even start trying to unfuck this situation. "Ray –" he tried again.

"Oh, no." Ray cut him off. "Don't you go turn into a bleeding-heart sack of tears on me now, Colbert. There aren't any Humvees within a hundred klicks for you to hide under and I have the keys to your rental. Bail on me now and I'll run you over, like I should have done when Trombley fucked up that poor kid and you went all Lady MacBeth. I've seen the looks you've been giving me all afternoon and you should remember that I'm still a 0321. Shit's fucked up, no question, but I'll make do."

"What, exactly, does that mean in this situation?" Brad asked. "Because given that you haven't been clear on the sit-rep – " He paused and decided that telling Ray he wasn't brimming over with confidence that Ray could fix what was broken wasn't the best course of action. "Fine. Will you at least advise me of your plan?"

"Jesus Christ, Brad, not everything is strategy and tactics!" Ray threw his hands up in the air and glared at him. "I mean, you know that there aren't actually dragons to slay out here in this place we like to call the real world, right? Sometimes shit is just shitty and the only thing to do is to kick dirt on it to cut down on the stench and walk the fuck away."

"What I do understand, Ray," said Brad with exaggerated patience, "is that this cesspool of a town is not a rose garden. Believe me, that's a solid copy. And I don't think I'm Lochnivar or who-the-fuck-ever, riding in here to save you from the evil queen who has you locked up in a tower. But don't expect me to believe that you're just going to say 'fuck this relationship' and go Oscar-Mike. Stow that shit: I know what your mother means to you."

Ray sighed heavily and sat down on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands. "Christ, I'm not sure that I've even got a choice here," he confessed, rubbing his temples. "Fuck."

Brad scooted over and put a hand between Ray's shoulder blades, kneading at the knots of tension coiled under the warm skin. It was rare for him to see one of his Marines in trouble and not be able to do something to help them out; because this was Ray, his feelings of helplessness were magnified about a thousand percent.

"I've never seen her like this," Ray said after a minute. "I'm not one of those kids who grew up with a parents who hid everything from them; I always knew when shit was going down. She wasn't exactly a ball of sunshine when I turned down college scholarships to become a Marine, you know?"

"And then there was the awesome fun that was had when she finally kicked my dad's lying, cheating ass out the door. But fuck if this isn't worse than those two things put together."

"I mean, with my dad, she was sad, sure, but she made it at least seem like it was me and her against the world, that we'd take care of each other. Now it's like – I don't even know. Like I personally tore apart her every hope and dream and laid them down at her feet to die, or some shit like that. She can barely even look at me."

Shit. Brad sighed, moving closer so that he could use both hands. He smoothed his thumbs down the soft skin where Ray's hairline ended at the base of his neck, before pressing his thumbs in with more force. Ray took a deep breath and shrugged, relaxing some under Brad's hands.

"I don't know. Maybe I could deal with this better if she were all sad sighs and looks that make me feel like I nuked a pile of puppies. But, no, because she won't shut the fuck up. You think I talk a lot? I ain't got nothin' on her. She keeps going on about how I'm not _that_ kind of man, how she didn't raise me to be weak or girly. Every single stereotype about nancy boys has been thrown at me in the last three days, like I started getting the rag because I suck cock."

"She even started in on me with the Sodom and Gomorrah shit, wanted me to come to Bible study with her so I can be saved from my evil, gay ways. I was like, 'Mom, do you remember when I got kicked out of Sunday School when I was ten for pointing out that Christ looked like a Nazi, all that blonde hair and those blue eyes?'"

Brad laughed and Ray crooked his head back to grin at him. "I never told you that? I'm not kidding, man, we'd just learned about the Holocaust in history and I had no trouble believing that Jesus was a charter member of the SS. Shit hit the fan, then, let me tell you. I was about done with that so-called religious education by then, anyway. I mean, fuck, clearly we used to swing from the trees like monkeys: no creationist preacher was going to tell me otherwise."

"Fuck, Ray, never change." Brad pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

"Gotta tell you, you're in the minority opinion there, buddy, especially right here, right now." Ray hummed a few bars. "Jesus Jones, man, he just fell off the map. Anyway, yeah, you're a voice of one: there's been some pretty heavy campaigning 'round here for me to see the error of my ways. After the plan to bring me back into the fold of the Southern Baptist bit the dust, she went off in a whole new direction. She got home from work yesterday with a print-out of the UCMJ and she read select bits of it to me over dinner."

Brad let out a low whistle. However misguided she might be, the woman clearly had a sound grasp of tactical warfare.

"I know, right? It's not like that would have ever worked, but after the goat-fucked war we just somehow lived through? The last thing that's going to make me rethink shit is respect for the fucked-up word of God laid down by the DoD. I mean, Command has already clearly demonstrated that they couldn't find their own cocks if Jeff Stryker was jerking them off, why they fuck should I let them tell me what to do with mine?"

"You say that to her?"

"Damn straight I did!" Ray tensed again. "She asked me if I wasn't better off out of the Corps if I felt that way," he said, his tone fraught. "That I did my country a disservice every time I put on a uniform that stands for things I clearly don't believe in anymore."

Brad's hands stilled. "She said what?" he asked, carefully modulating his voice lest he give in to the rage pulsing through him.

"Oh, I set her straight on that point, don't you fucking worry." Ray's voice took back its normal tenure, confident and strong. "She now understands, very clearly, that I'm a Marine, first and foremost, that I live and die by that code, and that I could go down on the entire battalion and it wouldn't say a damn thing about why I serve my country or what kind of Marine I am."

"Good." Brad started rubbing Ray's shoulders again, as much to soothe as to be soothed. "That happened last night?"

"Yeah. That was the turning point for me. I would have called you today, Brad, honest. I was going to just as soon as I finished battling it out with the airplane about changing my flight. "

"You were coming home?"

"Straight into your arms, big boy." Ray fell back into Brad's chest, presumably to demonstrate his point. Brad held him for a minute and then Ray pulled away, tugging off his shirt and tossing it onto the floor. He lay down on his stomach and cradled his head on his arms on the pillow. "Don't stop with the backrub now, just because you heard what you wanted. It's not like I haven't been making it perfectly clear since the moment you showed up on my doorstep, looking like the mega-super-sized version of a little lost waif, that I'm still your hunka hunka burning love."

"Point, Ray." Brad smacked Ray's ass before straddling his waist, settling in to continue the massage. He pushed his hands flat, pretended they were bricks, the way Rudy had shown him years ago. "What about your mom?"

"Fuck, I don't know. It's not like I'm running away from home. I mean, Christ, I'm twenty-four years old. I've been on my own for a while now, and it wouldn't change a lot about my life if I were suddenly told to never darken the fucking doorway of my mother's house again."

"Might change some stuff," Brad said quietly.

"Yeah. That's why I think the best thing to do right now is declare a ceasefire, before we fuck everything up and there's no going back. We almost did that last night, when she started that shit with the UCMJ. I didn't say half the shit I could have to her, and I left the house before it could get really ugly, but, still, enough got said to do some damage."

Brad was careful not to think too much about how she deserved whatever she got, because Ray could read him like no one else. He could give a fuck what happened to that woman, but he didn't want Ray to say something he would regret later, once it was too late to take it back. "Town like this doesn't look like it would have hookers and blow. You tip some cows and get high on gas fumes, instead?"

Ray laughed. "I've got one or two other coping mechanisms, fuck you very much. I went down to that beach I took you to today. I practically lived there in high school, jerking off to thoughts of Angela fuckin' Chase and wallowing in my angst, like every healthy, red-blooded American teenage boy should. Lost my virginity there, too, with Pammy Sutton. And, fuck, did my first guy there, too, now that I think about it. Kevin Morrison. Mouth like a suction cup –"

"Stay on topic, Ray," Brad warned, digging his fingers into the taut trapezius muscle a little harder than strictly necessary.

Ray looked over his shoulder, grinning. "Aw, are you jealous? You know you got nothing to worry about. I love you long time, baby." He yawned. "Shit, man, you're putting me to sleep. I haven't slept worth a damn since I got here. I swear, I get more shut-eye invading hajji terrorist havens than I do in the bosom of my childhood home. Anyway, so I sat there and thought about all this crap and decided to cut my losses, for now."

"We're deadlocked, Brad, and, fuck, I've clearly spent too much time with Poke, but winning is going to look like losing at this point. And fuck it, I'm tired. I don't mean just right now, but still. We've got three weeks until they throw us in the shit again. I want to fuck around and surf and kick your ass at Halo, not sit around freaking out because I'm destroying the fabric of society _and_ breaking my mother's heart. I love her, but right now, _right the fuck now_, I don't need this shit, you know?"

"Yeah." Brad eased his touch, rubbing light circles on Ray's back. "Yeah, I do. I want you to get some sleep. Nothing here that won't be better dealt with if you aren't so fucking tired you can't even talk."

"You're a good man, Brad Colbert. 'With a heart such as yours/you could open any doors.'" Ray hummed for a minute. "Bug-fuck crazy, to be sure, hella high maintenance, and it takes some work to pull that stick out of your ass, but you'll do."

"High praise indeed, coming from a whiskey-tango, Special Olympics reject who's vying with me for princess of the year with this latest stunt." He could have gone on, but there was no point, really, since Ray was already asleep.

Brad slid off his perch on Ray's ass and got up to close the curtains. The room was on the second floor and they faced the back, but there was still something to be said for being safe rather than sorry, especially this deep into hostile territory. He pissed and brushed his teeth, the cool water feeling so good in his mouth that he contemplated showering, but settled for splashing his face.

Leaving his clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor, he moved backed into the bedroom as stealthily as he could – not nothing, that – but it was a wasted effort.

"Like a herd of elephants," Ray mumbled, rolling over to look at him. He opened his eyes wider. "Mamma mia, Colbert, I didn't know there'd be a show! If I give you a dollar, will you do a little twirl?"

"You just never shut the fuck up. How did you not deafen yourself years ago?" Brad grumbled, pulling off Ray's tennis shoes. Jesus Christ, his feet stank. "And you're rank. We'll do your weekly hose-down when we get up."

"Mmm, watersports. We haven't done that since before we deployed. But, yeah, not now. That's the kind of kinky shit I need to be awake to enjoy."

Brad didn't respond. Like a baby, Ray needed white noise to fall asleep and the sound of his own voice was a favorite lullaby. Sadly enough, Brad was conditioned to it now, too, and it was too damn quiet when he went to bed without Ray snoring in the background.

After his ex-fiancée had stepped all over his heart, he hadn't seen himself getting married, but fuck if he wasn't. All that bullshit about Don't Ask, Don't Tell; the idiocy surrounding the debate on gay marriage; the pervasive belief that gay men are slutty and unfaithful didn't matter one goddamn bit. Brad knew that neither of them was going anywhere. And, fuck if it wasn't so much better than it would have been with her. She was a lot of things, but she'd never made him laugh and she made a face if he belched at the dinner table. Ray just saw that as a challenge.

He got into bed, maneuvering them so that they were both under the covers. Ray pressed close, not exactly spooning, but close enough for Brad to sling an arm around his waist and slide a hand up under his t-shirt.

"You wanna fool around?" Ray asked sleepily.

"Later." Brad said, closing his eyes. "When I'm sure you aren't going to fall asleep with my dick in your ass."

"One time and your fragile ego is scarred for life. See if I let you fuck me the next time we come back from terrorizing the Taliban."

"Sleep, Ray."

It was quiet for a minute and Brad was just about to slip away into sleep himself when Ray spoke again, his voiced hushed. "Hey, Brad."

"Yeah."

"Thanks for coming."

"Yeah."

***

In what was becoming entirely too common an occurrence, Brad awoke to the ringing of the phone. He blinked for a minute, trying to figure out how that could have happened since both his and Ray's cell phones were on the bedside table, turned off.

"Hotel phone," Ray said blearily, sitting up, his hair sticking out all over the place. He rubbed his eyes. "You tell anybody where you were going?"

"My mom," Brad said, eyeing the phone with dread. It stopped ringing.

"Aw, look at the big bad Recon Marine. Vanishes into war zones for months, but keeps his mommy updated on his twenty when he's flying domestic in the safest country in the world."

"No POG switchboard operator being paid to be reassuring when I'm not in the A-O, is there?" Brad pointed out as the phone started ringing again. "That can't be good."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Ray reached across Brad and grabbed the hand piece. "Nevada's House of Happy Hooker's. This is John…Why, hello, Anna! What a pleasant surprise! Brad didn't say you'd be calling."

"Ray – " Brad grabbed for the phone, but Ray evaded his reach, twisting away. "Well, hell, yeah, I'd rather talk to me, too. What can I do for you, ma'am? Has that boy of yours been causing you grief again? I tell you, he's just no end of trouble. I don't know how you put up with him."

"I'm gonna show you trouble," Brad said, but it was a threat without teeth because once his mom and Ray got started, they could go for hours. He stopped trying to get the phone and flopped down on his pillow trying to hear what his mom was saying to Ray.

Ray's end of the conversation was no help, for once, consisting mostly of Ray making the occasional affirmative noise. Only Brad's mom and four-star generals could command that level of deference from Ray and it wasn't always a sure thing with the generals.

As he lazed on the pillow and listened to Ray go on, he was struck at how this was the first time since he had arrived that Ray's smile had been that big, his laugh that real. It made him want to book tickets on the next flight home, far away from this shitstorm with the woman whose claim to Ray didn't extend much beyond shared genomes, as far as Brad was concerned.

Brad was just drowsing back off to sleep when Ray said, "Don't you worry, Anna, I'll have him back to you safe and sound in no time. I'll even make sure there's a big smile on his face, just for you." Brad groaned, and buried his head under the pillow, but not in time to miss Ray's laugh, and hear him promise, "Oh, I'll do that, too."

Ray unearthed him a few minutes later, flopping down beside him. Their heads were so close on the pillow that Brad could only see him out of the very corner of his eye, but he could tell Ray was smiling. "Your mommy sends you a big hug and kiss, Bradley. She said I could choose where to deliver the kiss, though." Ray smirked. "Man, she rocks ass. She's gonna be the best grandma ever, the kind who takes the kids to Disneyland and feeds them junk food all day long while telling them all the dirt about their mean old man. That's you, by the way. I'm the young, fun dad."

"We're not having kids, Ray."

"Not yet, we're not. On what we make?" Ray snorted. "Gotta get you promoted to Gunnery Sergeant, at least, first. I'll go back to school and get a job with real benefits, and then, once you hit your twenty, you can retire and run around with the munchkins all day while I slave away to bring home the bacon. Or whatever it is we feed them if we decide to keep kosher, like your grandma keeps nagging you to do."

Brad moved back a little, staring at him. How was it possible that Ray hadn't said anything about this before, given how he spewed forth every thought that came into his brain? The most bizarre part was that suddenly this didn't seem like all that crazy an idea to Brad, and, fuck, that in itself was terrifying. He fumbled for something to say. "I'll be forty, by then."

"What, you got something better planned for your old age? It's not like we've got to worry about your ovaries shriveling up: we're clearly going to have to adopt, so we can have 'em any time. Fuck, we'll get one of the boys to liberate an orphanage, have a whole passel of them. Maybe Poke wants another one, or Fick. He'd be an okay parent. Not Trombley, though, because I wouldn't trust that sociopath to raise a hamster. Oh, hey, you think we should get them a hamster – " Brad rolled over and pulled Ray down, kissing him to stop the flow of words.

Ray grinned up at him. "Excellent idea, Brad. Just because we're not going to be birthin' no babies doesn't mean we can't practice making them."

"Let's figure out shit with our parents before we make plans to become them ourselves," Brad said. "What did my mother have to say?"

"She told me to call my mom."

Brad looked at him interrogatively and Ray sighed. "My mom tracked her down through the Recon calling tree and, master of ingenuity that she is, called her to find out if she knew where I was."

"Doesn't much give a damn if she outs me, too, does she?"

"Oh, she made up some bullshit about me telling her that a bunch of us guys were planning on spending a week at the beach house. Supposedly she lost the number I gave her and I'm not answering my cell phone. You'll notice it's not all lies: she knows I haven't been hopping-to every time my phone rings and we are spending next week at your place in Malibu."

"I hope that the part about us being joined by a large crowd of grunts is misdirection on somebody's part," Brad said dryly. Just because he wanted to go back to work didn't mean he wanted to spend his leave playing kindergarten teacher.

"Yeah, I told her that before all this shit went down because she wanted to know why I wasn't staying with her longer. It seemed like it would be a better story than, 'Brad and I are going to hole up in his family's love shack by the sea and fuck on the beach because we still haven't had enough of sand riding up our assholes.'" Ray rolled his eyes. "Anyway, your mom told her that she thought we were probably out of cell range, but that if you happened to call in, she'd pass along the message. Your mom totally lied for me, homes. That's my kind of woman."

"Too bad she thinks you're a freak who should be in the cage beside the bearded man in a circus side show." Brad stretched, his body bumping up alongside Ray's.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire." Ray mocked. "Your mom loves me and you know it. She's the one who put the baby idea in my head, for Christ's sake. I'm pretty sure she's already picked out the matching tuxes and picked out a queer-friendly rabbi. Full Marine color guard, dude."

"Call your mother, then, Ray. Nobody's getting down on bended knee if she gets your ass kicked out of the Corps."

"Jesus Christ, no wonder your mom thinks we should get married. You already nag like you're my wife." Ray grumbled, but reached for his cell. "I want you to remember this was your idea," he said, glaring at Brad.

"It's going to be fine. Just call." Brad said quietly, smoothing a hand over Ray's hair. He got out of bed as Ray thumbed opened the phone. He needed a piss and a shower and Ray could use some privacy.

***

Brad was shaving when Ray came into the bathroom. "Homes, are you humming the theme song from _Annie_?" Ray asked, pulling off his t-shirt. "That's so freaking gay, man."

"My sexual preferences have nothing to do with my love of great music," said Brad. "It's certainly better than that ear-clashing soul-destroying noise you profess to enjoy. Speaking of which, Walt got you guys tickets to the Headstones for next Thursday."

Ray brightened. "For the farewell tour? Awesome! I tried to score some, but all my guys have been sold out for weeks. He say how much?"

"Fifty."

"Not bad at all. I'll drop by his place on our way home for the airport, get him back –" Ray paused, looking at Brad. "Unless my fairy godmother already took care of it?

"You'll get me back," said Brad dismissively. That was an old fight, and not one he particularly wanted to get into right then.

Ray snorted. "Yeah, right. You'll let me do that the day after Iraq freezes over."

"What did your mom say?"

"Don't think I don't know when you're changing the subject, Colbert. That wasn't even close to tricky." Ray turned the shower on. "We can talk about her after we've taken care of the important shit, like my stomach. I ordered pizza, it'll be here in fifteen mikes. I'd offer to pay for it but why bother when I've got my own trust-fund loaded sugar daddy?"

"Offer up your ass later and we'll call it even," Brad said, watching in the mirror as Ray pulled off his skivvies.

Ray noticed him looking and grinned, palming his cock suggestively. "Five days without dick too much for you? Don't worry, I'm a sure thing, Brad. I'll even throw in a bonus blowjob if you get Cokes from that machine down the hall."

"Turn around and hold still a minute," Brad said. Ray did, and sure enough, there was a deep, purpling bruise on his ass, some circular spots darker than others where Brad had sucked harder, and what were clearly bite marks, faded though they were. Brad flashed on Ray spread out over the bed, his legs spread wide open, his hole right there, open and ready for Brad's tongue and fingers, the flush of the tequila making everything slower, as he took his time to make a mark that Ray would feel the entire plane ride, a mark that might still be there when he came back to Brad.

No one would mistake it for anything other than a hickey, and Brad's mood darkened at the thought of Ray's mom seeing it. Even without all this shit, it was a deeply intimate act, and he didn't share the details of his sex life with anyone.

Ray turned back around. "So she saw. So the fuck what?" he said, goosing Brad. "You think that's what I think about every time I feel it? Fuck that shit. It was so fucking hot, you doing that. I sat as still as I could on the plane out here, because every time I moved my ass, it flared up and my dick got hard. I jerked off in a bathroom in Denver, which is one way to kill a layover."

Brad shook his head, about to protest, and Ray leaned up and kissed him. "Not a fucking word, Colbert. It was well-worth it, and if it hadn't been you marking my ass as your own personal canvas, it would have been something else. She knew, and the more I think about it, the more I think this trip would have brought all this shit to the forefront, one way or another. So stow it, all right?"

He wasn't one to cry over spilled milk, anyway. "All right," he said, kissing Ray lightly.

Ray got into the shower and Brad finished up in the bathroom. He put on sweats but forewent a t-shirt: not much point, since the game plan clearly called for nudity sooner than later.

The pizza guy was there just as he got back from getting the drinks, and Brad paid him, making sure to keep the guy in the hallway so he couldn't hear Ray's caterwauling from the bathroom. Fuckin' Willie Nelson: Brad was going to discourage visits home from now on, between the high risk of exposure to country music and the familial drama.

He settled on the bed with the pie beside him, turning on the tv and flicking through the channels until he found MTV. They hadn't bothered to turn on any lights beside the bedside lamp when they got up and the glow from the screen added a blueish tinge to the dim room. He grinned when he saw there was a early 80s video retrospect on. Decent music, what smelled like a pretty good meal waiting beside and, and odds were better than excellent that he was going to get some before the night was out. Life had certainly turned itself around nicely in the last twelve hours.

Ray came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, rubbing his hair dry. "Extra large, extra cheese, extra meat," he said with satisfaction, dropping down on the bed beside Brad and opening the box. "Not a lot I miss about this shithole on any given day, but there were times in Iraq I'd have sold you and your mother to the Hajjis for one of Joey's pies."

"My mother will be pleased to hear she has such great value," Brad said dryly, taking a bite. "Not bad."

Brad couldn't quite make out what Ray mumbled, since his mouth was full but he thought he could pick out a few of Ray's favorite insults about California boys.

"So," said Ray, after his third piece. "My mom freaked out when she got home and found the flight shit on the kitchen table."

"Yeah?" Brad picked up the remote and turned off the TV.

Ray nodded. "Yeah. She thought maybe I'd gone AWOL, left that as my final message to her or some lame-ass stunt like that. I said the same thing to her that I said to you earlier: when the hell have I ever been that passive-aggressive?"

Brad felt a flash of regret. "Ray – "

"Chill, homes, it's fine. You're a paranoid motherfucker, I've known that since day one, and she's proving to be just as freaking nuts. Christ, you know shit's fucked up when I look sane in comparison."

"I think that's taking it a little far," said Brad, relaxing and shooting a grin at Ray.

Ray smirked at him. "You get a vote on a day you haven't flown across the fucking country because we didn't talk for four days." He paused. "Shit, when was the last time we went that long without talking to each other?"

Brad shrugged and took another piece of pizza. Near as he could recall, it was two years ago when Ray had gone to mountain warfare school, but he thought they might have emailed a time or two then. He let the point stand for itself.

"Fuck, okay, you win. I think we both agree that my mom is off her goddamn rocker right now. So, she's freaking out but then Mrs. Johnston – fucking busybody that she is, and I swear, I'm going to let loose with a 40 mikemike on her front porch one day – calls to chat with mom about that strange blond man who was with me at the Burger King."

"It's that small a town?" Brad rolled his eyes. Good to know he didn't need to revisit his opinion of in-bred, buck-toothed, donkey farmers any day soon. Only thing it had going for it right now was this pizza place and even then he'd bet there wasn't an avocado or prawn anywhere in its coolers.

"It wouldn't be if it didn't have Mrs. Johnston, but she's fucking legendary, man. People three counties away can't keep their shit secret from her. And you drew attention because you look like good marrying material. Mrs. Johnston's been trying to marry off Sandra for twenty years now."

"She a dog?"

"Nah, man, she's a freaking dyke. She's been living in Cleveland with her girlfriend for the last ten years; they just had their second baby girl. Talk about denial. It would be impressive if it weren't so fucked up." Ray shook his head. "Anyway, so Mom found out that I haven't flown the coop, and tracked down your mom's number, like I said. She only had to go as far as Mike Wynn's wife, though." Ray looked at him, serious for a moment. "So we're safe on that one."

Brad nodded, relieved. Odds were good that Cecilia Wynn knew about him and Ray, but you could shove bamboo poles up her fingernails and she'd still go to the grave with that intel, just like she would with the hundreds of other secrets about the guys in First Recon, just like the Gunny himself would do. "So know that your mom knows that you haven't absconded with your tail tucked between your legs, is there to be joyful mother and son reunion? Or does my presence just further fuck up the situation?"

Ray looked guilty for at least the second time since Brad had arrived on his doorstep eight hours earlier, which was twice more than he'd seen that particular expression in the last three years of their relationship. "Yeah, look, about that. She wanted me to come home so we could talk, I told her that I thought enough had been said right now, that we both need some time to chill. She actually seem to hear what I was saying, for a fucking change, and she asked if I wouldn't at least come to dinner tomorrow night." He paused. "I said that I had a guest in town now and that it wouldn't be good manners to leave you to fend for yourself."

"What did she say to that?"

"That she thought since you could live off a cottontail and two sticks for a week at a time, you'd probably be able to manage one meal on your own here in the land of Piggly-Wigglys and Wal-Mart."

Brad laughed and Ray just shook his head. "Not funny, homes."

"Yeah, it is. Fuck, not much else about this is hilarity-inducing, but at the very least, it's good to know that you're definitely an apple from her tree."

Ray grinned. "Well, hell, then you'll find this down-right side splitting: I told her that I wasn't going without you. Since she was so fucking intent on knowing the truth about us, she can damn well deal with us sitting together at her dining room table."

That was pretty much what Brad had been expecting, and goddamn if he wasn't proud of Ray for it, but they didn't say shit like that to each other. Moreover, he owed Ray some serious shit for that miserable trip in coach this morning. "I'm less likely to be poisoned dining with the rabbit." He moved the box of pizza off his lap, closing the cover and sliding it along the deck away from the bed.

"Fuck you, Brad, I've had dinner with your family every Friday night and Jewish holiday that we've been off for the last two years. You can give me one night, as motherfucking miserable as it's going to be."

"The difference, Ray, is that my family likes you. Whereas your mother would gladly see me hung in the town square."

"Of course they like me. I golfed with your dad on his birthday! I went to your sister's opening for that gay-ass community theatre league she loves! They like me because they've had a chance to get to know me, and the least you can do is – " Ray stopped, mid-rant, and then tackled Brad, the towel that had been keeping him decent going flying. "What an asshole. You were so fucking with me. You're fucking coming to dinner, and you're going to make nice with my mom, and that's just how it's going to be. RayRay has spoken, and his word is law." He sat on Brad's chest with finality.

"It's going to be painful, Ray," said Brad, not moving despite the hard, naked body that was splayed across him, asking to be touched and licked and fucked. "I'm going to need to be compensated in advance."

"The same way the Corps compensates you, Brad?" Ray braced his hands on Brad's chest and bent down so their mouths were almost touching. "By telling you to bend over so you can get fucked up the ass by Godfather's big stick?"

"Let's start with a blowjob," said Brad, relenting and letting himself touch, his hands running over Ray's back, coming to rest on his waist, his fingers grooving into the hollows at his hips. "And I gotta tell you, my little pygmy runt, after the last five days, the only ass that's getting fucked in this room is yours."

Ray grinned. "Ooh, Sergeant Colbert. I promise to take my punishment like a man." He moved the fraction of an inch necessary to brush their mouths together, but neither of them was in the mood for a tease, and the kiss got hot and dirty fast.

There'd been a time when Brad's one rule about sex had been to never fuck the same person more than once, or at least not for more than one night. After he'd been duped and dumped, he'd sworn that he was never going to do all that hearts and flowers bullshit again, and had put fair effort into making up for the years of one-sided monogamy.

There was plenty of opportunity for anonymous and meaningless but fun sex in the vicinity around a military base in SoCal, and Brad had sampled the wares available on both sides of the aisle. He didn't stop when he and Ray had first started fucking around, they'd even trolled the same bars together.

One night Brad had watched some cute punk girl put the moves on his RTO and had been surprised by how violently he was reminded he didn't like to share. He'd put the kibosh on that particular assignation, sending the little green-haired girl packing without aplomb. That had led to a fight the likes of which Brad had meant to put behind him with engagement rings and empty promises of true love forever, the upshot of which had been that there would be no more ass on the side for either of them.

Even when he was sixteen and a walking hormone, being true to one person had never really chafed his ass. Fidelity was part of the warrior ethos by which he'd wanted to live his life. The reality of it then was that it just one more thing that he did for her; he'd never seen it as being particularly meaningful, but that turned out to be the fault of the person he was with, not the commitment itself. Eight years with his former fiancée, another three fucking every person that looked like they might be a good time, one with Ray and everybody else, and then just the last two only with Ray, and only then, somehow, had he started to learn not only how satisfying sex could be but how much fun, too.

Ray approached sex with the same boundless energy and fearlessness that he did everything else, and right then he was sucking and licking his way down Brad's body like as though there were no larger strategy at play, like he didn't care if he ever got off again as long as he applied the perfect amount of force to the way he bit Brad's collarbone. In this case, that was enough to make Brad arch off the bed but still somehow tease. "More, Ray, fuck, harder." Brad crooned, shivering under the touch.

He was ignored, as he'd known he would be, but Ray moved down to his nipple, laving and sucking it before biting down hard. Brad groaned, and Ray bit again, and then did the same to the other one, moving back and forth between them, using both hands and mouth. He twisted and pinched and sucked more, working Brad's pecs over like he meant to make him come from it, and fuck if he hadn't done it before because Ray knew how to work Brad's body like it was just another instrument he'd picked up and mastered after hearing one song on the radio, but Brad wanted more tonight.

Ray did too, apparently, because after one last nip he moved down again, tonguing Brad's navel, before licking around where Brad's cock was lying on his abdomen, darting his tongue in and out to take tiny stabs at the precome pooled there. His breath was hot and Brad could feel it everywhere, knew how good it was going to be to feel more than that, but there was no point in asking Ray to hurry the fuck up and swallow him down. Doing so would actually be counter-productive, he knew this from years of being tortured at these hands, so he just swallowed and steeled himself, forcibly holding back from tightening his grip on Ray's head and shoving him down.

"Brad, dude, you need to chill the fuck out," Ray murmured, dropping a kiss on side of Brad's cock before leisurely trailing his tongue along the vein running down the length. "When haven't I given it to you like you need it? Yet here you are wound tighter than a goddamn drum kit. Just say the word, man, and you'll be down my throat. Best thing the Marines taught me was how to not choke on your cock, and they didn't even mean to do that."

He started licking at Brad's balls and it was more than Brad could take, he groaned and thrust up, just once, but it was all the signal Ray needed. He took the head of Brad's dick in his mouth and tongued around it, then sucked before swallowing, and fuck if he didn't take it all in one swallow like he'd never had a gag reflex, even before Dive school had beat it out of him.

Brad writhed against the bedspread, trying to give Ray a moment to adjust, but Ray never needed long, and as soon as Brad felt him relax again he shoved up and thrust, fucking Ray's mouth, his throat, holding his head firm so that Brad could hit the angle he liked. Ray closed his mouth a bit more, letting Brad feel his teeth, and fuck if that wasn't going to make Brad come if Ray did it again, except he was pulling back, slightly, and Brad shallowed his thrusts, watching as Ray slide two fingers in his mouth alongside Brad's cock, getting them wet before reaching down and stroking Brad's hole.

Motherfucker. Brad was so fucking close, he couldn't – fuck – there might actually be goddamn stars behind his eyes and then Ray slipped his fingers inside him, both at once, and Brad's entire body spasmed as he was breached. Ray pulled off him just as he came, stroking him off with one hand while the fingers of his other hand pushed him apart, split into him, and he shot, coming all over Ray's face and chest.

After a moment of reveling in an orgasmic haze, Brad looked down. Ray was still between his legs, lazily licking at Brad's softening cock, cleaning him up and sending secondary shivers all through Brad. "Come up here," he said, reaching out a hand.

Ray complied, crawling up Brad like he was a tree and once their eyes were level, Brad flipped them over, so that he was braced over Ray. Brad knew damn well that he might be big but Ray was scrappy; if he didn't want to be under Brad, he wouldn't be. But he didn't complain, just smirked up at Brad.

"You've got shit on your face again," Brad murmured, licking a long line up Ray's jaw, dragging his tongue through his own come, before getting down to business and cleaning Ray up with his mouth, the stubble on Ray's cheeks rough under his lips. He was careful not to press too hard around Ray's bruised eye – they were going to ice that, later.

"When you're finished grooming me like some freaky kitty-cat fetishist – " Ray started talking and Brad shut him up by kissing him. Most effective way he'd found to do that, and it was a damn shame the UCMJ wouldn't let him do it when he was actually in charge. Just more evidence of how shortsighted the Corps really was.

Instead of kissing him back, Ray bit him and shoved his cock up into Brad's hip. "Don't even thinking about getting all sleepy and sated on me. There's more work to be done here and it involves my cock up your ass. In your great omniscience, Iceman, did you see fit to bring the lube or am I going to have to make do?"

"Fear not, Ray, I brought lube," Brad stretched out his arm and pulled open the nightside table where he'd stashed it before the pizza guy showed up. He rolled over and handed it to Ray, who was looking at him with patently fake shock and hurt. Brad didn't ask, just waited.

"I can't believe you brought this," Ray said, shaking the bottle. "You thought I'd been stolen off into the night by a band of roving gypsies or fallen down and couldn't get up or some tragic shit like that and you thought that you'd better bring the slick just in case, what, you got to get off with the head warden or something when you brought me the cake with the file in it? Dude, where are your priorities?"

"There's just no way for me to win," groused Brad, dragging Ray in close for another kiss. "I bring the lube, I get bitched out for planning to get some after I determined your status. If I'd forgotten it, I'd be spreading my legs right now prepped with spit and a wish. Fuck, you're a pain in the ass."

Ray snorted. "Not yet," he grinned, kissing Brad once more before rolling out from under him so that Brad was left lying on his stomach. "C'mon, roll over."

Brad complied, starting to roll onto his back, but Ray caught his shoulder just as he turned on his side. "Like this, okay?"

"Yeah," said Brad, angling his head so that he could look back at Ray and smile.

Ray smiled back and knelt behind Brad, leaning in to kiss him again. Brad slid his top leg forward, opening his body to Ray's touch. Ray didn't get right down to business the way Brad had expected him to but kept kissing Brad, long wet kisses that Brad got lost in, his mouth feeling swollen and full, different than when it was full of Ray's cock yet somehow the same. He tried to turn on his back so that he could have better access, to pull Ray further into him, but Ray's hand on his shoulder kept his back pressed up against his legs, holding Brad in place.

The tangle of their tongues changed, as Ray pulled back a little, licking at Brad's mouth, caressing deep inside with his tongue and then pulling back so that their mouths were barely touching and all that Brad felt was the press of their lips and the hot air of Ray's breath filling him before Ray moved closer again, licking and probing. Brad didn't even try to meet the touch this time, just held still, mouth open to receive Ray's.

Ray made a sound of approval deep in his throat and intensified the kiss again, rubbing his tongue up against Brad's palette, nipping at Brad's tongue before sliding out and biting along the fullest part of Brad's swollen lips, a wet lick following each hard bite, so that sensation blurred in Brad, pleasure chasing pain so swiftly it was barely there. They were hardly touching at all, just the warmth along Brad's back, Ray's hand on his shoulder, their mouths together, and still he was alight with arousal, his cock beginning to take notice again.

He wasn't the only one affected; he could feel Ray hard against his back, and he reached back and took his cock in hand, stroking to the rhythm of the kiss and Ray moaned, thrusting into his hand before moving away. He was just out of Brad's reach, but if Brad leaned back – no, once again Ray held him in place.

"Fuck, Brad, you do that, and I'm going to jizz all over this monstrous ink on your back." Ray mouth was up against Brad's again, his voice low and urgent. "Stay fucking still." He kissed Brad again, but this time his hand moved down Brad's side, stopping on his ass. He pushed and Brad stretched his leg further forward. Ray's fingers trailed allowed his crack, barely touching his hole. Brad pushed back and heard the top flipped off the bottle of lube, heard a familiar squishing sound, and then a finger smoothed the cool gel over his entrance.

Ray was always so careful when he opened Brad, slow and methodical in a way that didn't manifest in anything else he did; he was always quick and sure of himself when he worked and Brad knew this didn't have anything to do with Ray's own surety, but Brad's issues. He'd never let anyone fuck his ass, not his ex, not anybody else during the years he'd slutted it up and it wasn't until Ray came along and showed that he wasn't going anywhere that Brad really considered it. In the end, it curiousity and desire got the best of him.

For all that they talked everything to death, they'd never really discussed this. Ray had been sucking Brad off one day and Brad had opened his legs a little more than strictly necessary. They'd exchanged a look of some significance, and then Ray had gone to town. He'd acknowledged Brad's apprehension by taking hours to get around to actually fucking him, licking and sucking and fingering him so that by the time he slid his cock in, Brad had been incoherent with desire, and he felt every inch of Ray moving into him with nothing close to pain, only the answering of need.

Ray had picked up the pace over the years, but not the deliberation with which he breached Brad's body, and now his finger moved into Brad at a glacial speed, thrusting up and down until Brad moaned and pushed back into it. Two fingers then, scissoring and loosening, coming back in over and over again covered with more and more lube each time until Brad was so soaked he thought he could feel it oozing out of him. Ray crooked his fingers down every time they were fully seated, sending jolts of pleasure through Brad. After a few minutes, Ray pulled them out all the way and Brad knew he was getting ready to add a third. He was more than ready without it. "Now," he said, reaching back to catch Ray's hand.

"Yeah," Ray breathed out and Brad heard more lube squeeze out of the bottle, turned to watch Ray slick up his cock.

Ray lay down beside him, spooning him, and adjusting their bodies so that his cock lined up with Brad's ass. The first blunt push of it made Brad draw in a breath. He exhaled shakily when Ray bit the back of his neck, pushing back and breathing out until Ray was home. Ray slung his leg over the top of Brad's thigh, wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him in close and they were fully pressed together, not a fraction of an inch between them. Brad barely had twist his head back at all to meet Ray's lips; Ray moved inside him as they kissed, long sure thrusts that hit Brad just right.

"Fuck, yes," Ray sighed, pulling away and mouthing at Brad's shoulder. "So motherfucking good around my dick, Colbert. On top of everything else, I've been so fucking horny since I've been here, all this talk about illicit gay sex and only my right hand and bad internet porn for company. Fuck, I bet I could go all night."

Brad flexed around him and Ray gasped and laughed. "Is that a vote for or against, baby? It's hard to tell with the way you're moaning my name. "

Honestly, Brad wasn't sure himself. Ray had taken Brad's cock in hand and was jacking him slowly in time to driving strokes into him, and he was still floating on the cloud of bliss that had started with the blow job and had been stoked by the kissing. There were certainly worse ways to spend an hour or two, and in the last six months there had been very little time for marathon fucking that they both enjoyed.

"I'll let you know when you start to annoy me," Brad said, trying to sound dry but mostly failing as Ray increased the tempo and Brad's cock decided that it was more than mildly interested it what was going on.

"Yeah," Ray sucked at Brad's shoulder, at the point where Brad thought the little tattoo of the satellite might be. "You do that. Meanwhile, I'll just take my cues from how motherfucking tight your ass is, and Jesusfuck, I fucking love this."

That was the last lucid thing to come out of Ray's mouth for a while, though he still maintained a stream of consciousness babble that managed to be both entertaining and erotic, and to jerk Brad off, alternating between hard and tight and so slow and soft that Brad considered begging but he didn't do that. Much.

It didn't matter that he'd come already once tonight, with the way that Ray was stroking his cock at the same time that he hit Brad's prostate with every bump and thrust, he was going to go a second time. But it wasn't urgent this time, just a slow building at the base of his spine, deepening of the pleasure he already felt. He waited for Ray's breathing to become more ragged, for longer gaps in the flow of words, for the bite at his shoulder that felt like it might break the skin but never did, and then clenched around Ray again, leaning back to kiss him, to suck Ray's tongue into his mouth.

Ray kissed him back, wrapping his hand around Brad's dick more tightly, his stroke hard, and Brad came, feeling Ray go over the edge with him. He slammed into Brad, his rhythm stuttering and then falling away completely as Brad shoved back onto him, biting at his mouth, swallowing Ray's curses and moans.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, kissing deeply and slowly, their hunger for each other fed but never fully abated. Ray stayed buried deep in Brad, the last aftershocks of orgasm shuddering through him. He softened eventually, but it wouldn't take much to get him hard again, and Brad canted his hips back. "You want to go for a second round?"

Ray groaned, going limp and splaying himself over Brad even more than he already was, burying his face in Brad's neck. "Fuck, I can't even believe I'm saying this, but I'm fucking exhausted, man. I'll take mercy on your ass this time, but don't expect it to happen again." He pulled out, and rolled off Brad, taking a few deep breaths before standing up.

Ray disappeared into the bathroom and Brad heard water running. Rolling onto his back, Brad stretched out legs and arms that had been in the same position for too long, until Ray came back, with a warm, wet facecloth that he used to wipe Brad down front and back, getting all the crevices that were getting itchy with drying come. Brad closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy the caretaking.

"Move your ass, Brad. We've turned this bedspread into a come-soaked drop cloth that isn't even fit to be used to wipe Encino Man's ass." Brad complied, slipping under the covers, watching as Ray pulled the spread off the bed and dropped it on the floor along with the face cloth.

Ray pulled an extra blanket out of the closet and tossed it over the bed. He crawled in and turned off the bedside lamp. "Christ, it's one in the morning. We've got to get some shut-eye. I've got big plans for us tomorrow before we face the Southern Inquisition at my mother's dining room table. Fuck, I swear she's got napkin rings that double as thumbscrews, dude, it's going to be worse than SERE."

Brad turned so that he was facing Ray. "What could you possibly have planned for us in this red state backwater where I imagine the annual Klan rally to be the highlight of the social calendar?"

"Hey, it may not be the sprawling metropolis that San Diego is, but it's got some things going for it. There's a really great path going through the forest just north of us. I thought we'd get up, get some shit from my house once my mom leaves for work, and go for a run. There's a diner on around the corner that has pancakes as big as your head – and you've got a sizable noggin, dude, as swollen as it is with your ego – and fresh farm sausage and eggs."

"Mmm." That sounded excellent, actually. He'd gained back fifteen of the thirty pounds he'd lost in the desert but he was still hungry all the time, and Ray could stand to put on some weight, too, his normally wiry frame entirely too sharp.

"And then I've got something you're really going to like." Ray grinned, his eyes bright in the dark room. "One of my buddies here has a couple of beat up old Suzukis and a lot of fallow farm land, about twenty minutes out of town. Best off-roading you've ever seen."

"Fuck, that sounds awesome. But I don't have my leathers with me."

Ray raised his eyebrows. "We make do," he said, somewhat mockingly. "There's a store downtown that has gear. Don't worry, I told your momma I'd take good care of her little bearcub."

That merited punishment, but Brad would just get his back tomorrow when he left Ray choking on his dust. He scooted a little closer, putting a hand on Ray's flat belly and closing his eyes, counting the beat as Ray's breath slowed.

***

"I've been meaning to ask you, Brad, if your fairy godmother also supplied you with a pretty dress and a shiny pair of gargantuan glass slippers." Ray cracked, sliding behind the steering wheel. "I mean, fuck, Cinderella used to have wet dreams about this victor."

"Funnily enough, Ray, the car rental agencies at the airport in Kansas City don't offer a lot of choices when you fly in at the height of summer holidays without a reservation. Apparently it's much more a tourist destination than I would have ever imagined, further proving my belief that most people are tasteless, classless morons with zero ability to pick a decent vacation spot. I guess the bright side is that it keeps them out of my backyard." Brad paused for a moment to be grateful for that. "So it was either this or be crammed into some tiny piece of crap that would have left me crippled for life."

"You rented an orange sports utility vehicle. I mean, putting aside the fact that it's _orange_ for a minute, there's enough room in here for us to hold a platoon-sized orgy."

"I'm never having sex in the back of a truck again, Ray, so you can get that idea out of your tiny, cock-obsessed brain. Christ, I almost broke your back after Al-Kut."

"You're such a nebbish, Brad." Ray grinned at him. "Remember how hot it was after that fuckin' ambush? We'd figured shit out by then."

They certainly had. He had a brief flash of Ray riding him on the passenger side of their victor, their MOPP suits shoved down just enough to allow them access, the feel of Ray clenched so tight on his cock, lotion purloined from Rudy barely enough to allow him to slide in.

He checked the thought as quickly as it arrived. Tonight was going to be excruciating, at best; arriving at Ray's mother's house with a woody would not help the situation. He forced his mind to other matters. "_Nebbish_? Ray, you have to stop watching Seinfeld. I've told you this before: the man's a goddamn anti-Semite. He's traded in on five thousand years of history to make a buck. He's a fraud and whore, and to make things worse, he's a bitch-ass-ugly whore."

"You're just pissed you didn't come up with the idea first, Brad. C'mon, you can admit your life-long dream to do stand-up comedy. Don't I keep all your secrets safe? And it wasn't Seinfeld I learned that from, it was your grandmother."

Fucking bad influences, the women in his life. He opened his mouth to say as much, then realized that this wasn't the ideal time to decry maternal figures. Ray was tense enough; the whitened knuckles gripping the steering wheel were proof-positive of that, no matter how relaxed his banter. The bruising around his eye had gone down after frequent icing and his color had improved after a day on the bikes; sleep, sun, and sex had helped him unwind some, but Brad could still see traces of the worn down look that he'd born when Brad knocked on his mother's front door yesterday.

Brad wanted to say that they didn't have to do this. Ray could have dinner with his mother and Brad could go back to the hotel room and pretend to watch the baseball game. Not to save himself – he'd could give a shit what Ray's mom thought of him. He wanted to spare Ray this, though, to save him two or three hours of watching his mother circle them with weapons worse than chemical bombs, aiming for Brad, but hitting Ray. But Ray, now that he'd gotten over his initial freak-out – which had been a beauty – was going to face his dragons head on. At least he'd let Brad get his six.

"We're here," Ray announced unnecessarily, pulling up in front of the house. He killed the engine but didn't move to open the door. "Look, Brad – "

Brad cut him off. "Don't you even fucking say it, Ray. I'm going to break bread with your mother and we're going to have a civilized conversation and talk about absolutely nothing that matters, and at the end of the evening I'm going to take you to the lake and suck you off so well that you forget every other blowjob you've ever had, up to, including, and especially Pammy fucking Sutton."

Ray laughed. "What about Kevin Morrison?"

"I never want to hear you utter that name again, Ray. I'm serious."

Brad's ploy had worked: Ray's moment of anxiety seemed to pass without expression. He pulled the key out of the engine and moved to open the door. "Billy Winston fucked me in the parking lot outside Dairy Queen the night before I shipped out for basic."

"Don't eat dessert," said Brad frostily. "We'll get a cone after, just so I can shove it up your ass."

They'd been sitting in the car long enough for Brad to scope out the house: the curtains in the living room fluttered, like somebody was watching them. He put his hand on Ray's arm to stop him from getting out of the car, and leaned over, kissing Ray square on the mouth.

This wasn't like the kiss Ray had given him yesterday when Brad had showed up unannounced, with Ray wired like he'd had a Ripped Fuel suppository and Brad worried out of his head. Brad wasn't telling the universe – or Ray's mother - to fuck off. In fact, at that moment in time, he could give a fuck about the universe. He cared about the soft mouth beneath his, the warm hard body pressed up against him, the giving of succor to get through a long battle.

Ray pulled away and wiped his mouth, rolling his eyes and grinning at Brad. "Did you want to piss on me, too, before we go in?"

"Not about marking my territory, Ray. I know what's mine." Brad paused. "Listen, at the end of this, you and I are going to drive away together, no matter what goes down in there tonight – "

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Brad, spare me the Oprah moment." Ray jerked open the door and got out of the victor. "I know how this story ends, Colbert," he said when Brad joined him at the front walkway. "Don't turn into a girl on me now; I need the Iceman in there, not Pretty in Pink Barbie. So stay fucking frosty."

"Roger that," Brad murmured, fighting back his grin as Ray rapped sharply on the front door. He opened the door without waiting for an answer, and held it open for Brad, the two of them entering the house together.


End file.
